(Excerpt of an in vitro novel “Bloody Management” for NaNoWriMo. Unfettered, unedited, but not dispirited. From chapter 17, “Monahan”.)

They tore themselves away and, sighing soundlessly, each in his corner, got dressed, eyeing each other shyly. Nicholas thought Maggie Monahan was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Men can be simple that way if they want to, usually to an honourable end. Maggie thought Nicholas could need some trimming around the beltline and that he was a nice man with potential to be a lot more than a nice man, a treasure hunter, a mysterious, hairy gollywoggle. She had enjoyed the sex, too, more so than she had in a long time, maybe ever, but such memories are like autumn leaves: they rot where they fall, they cannot and should not be preserved. They must fuse with the forest floor, they must return themselves, by their own free will, supported only by the gentle gravitational force, to the great circle of coming and going, of giving and getting.